


Preferred Prize

by moodymarshmallow



Category: Dragon Age
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-29
Updated: 2012-07-29
Packaged: 2017-11-10 23:05:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/471705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moodymarshmallow/pseuds/moodymarshmallow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fluff Friday prompt by Kyeshgall on tumblr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Preferred Prize

“Barkeep! Another round for me and my friends.”

“Ugh, no more rounds, please. I can’t.” Hawke pushed away a half empty mug, looking fairly green as he put his hand over his eyes, blocking out the dim light. To his left, Fenris looked less ill, but was sneering at the flagons with the same sort of displeasure with which the Arishok regarded everything. Merrill had passed out three rounds ago, or had at least fallen asleep, and was splayed out halfway on the table between Hawke and Anders, the latter of whom as drumming his fingers against the table with a bored, annoyed expression plastered onto his scruffy face. 

“You can’t tell me that you’re giving up so soon!” Isabela said with incredulous mischief on her face as she tented her fingers and leaned over the table. “You’re a big enough man to out drink one little old pirate, aren’t you?”

“Oh, to the bloody void with that ‘one little pirate’ nonsense,” Hawke said, looking greener by the moment. Abruptly, he got to his feet and rushed out of the door, Anders sighing as he stood.

“Thanks for the invitation Isabela; next time maybe we do something I can actually take part in.” Anders followed after Hawke, the sound of retching obvious when he opened the door.

“All right, that leaves just me and you two,” Isabela said, her eyes flickering from Fenris across the table to Varric at her side. “What will it be, dwarven fortitude, elven metabolism or Rivaini determination?” The barmaid brought them each a flagon, and after glancing around the table, they all drank, pounding the foul, warm liquid with steady faces, a trio of cups slamming onto the table in succession. 

” Venhedis!” Without warning, Fenris shot to his feet, stalking out of the Hanged Man without another word, wobbling awkwardly as he tried to find the doorknob, taking three tries to wrap his metal gauntlet around it and disappearing into the night. Varric shrugged, and the barmaid brought another round.

Merrill murmured in her sleep as Varric and Isabela drank, something about gryphons and soft, fluffy clouds, completely undisturbed by the thud of two tankards onto the table as Isabela and Varric eyed one another warily, looking for signs of weakness.

“Another round—”

“You win Rivaini; I can’t drink another drop of this swill, and I’m starting to think that this contest wasn’t even worth it. I’m already starting to feel hung-over, whatever sense that makes.” Varric sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose, wincing when Isabela let out a whoop of triumph, grinning from ear to ear like a madwoman.

“You know what that means, Varric.” 

“You still can’t touch Bianca.”

“Oh no, I don’t want to touch Bianca. Pay up, my handsome dwarven friend.”

With a dramatic sigh, Varric turned in his seat, loosening the belt around his waist and grabbing hold of the neckline of his tunic, pulling it down and opening it further. “Just…be gentle.” Isabela let out a girlish giggle and stuffed her hands, both of them, into Varric’s resplendent chest hair, running her fingers through it like it was the fur of some wild beast; reverent and excited. Varric sighed, looking distinctly put-upon as she did this, rolling his eyes at the overdramatic shiver and squeal she gave as she pulled her hands away.

“Oh, Varric, I’ll never be the same again,” she said, her eyes afire with friendly spirit as she grabbed his head and pulled him in to plant a sloppy kiss on the bridge of his wide, crooked nose.

“Well don’t go bragging about it now; I’ll have a line of women a mile long wanting to challenge me to a drinking contest.”

“I think I’ll be keeping that little prize all to myself, thank you very much.” Isabela stood, circling the table to shake Merrill awake.

“Oh! Are we done? Who won?” Merrill rubbed her eyes sleepily, following Isabela out of the tavern. “You know, I had the loveliest dream about flying on a gryphon…”

Varric shook his head when the door closed, reaching up to rub his nose. When he wrote this one down, he’d make Hawke the winner—again. There were some things his readers just didn’t need to know. 


End file.
